Suffer the Flesh by Monica O'rourke

She wondered what time of day it was, because she never knew for sure, not in this windowless torture chamber where the clocks indicated numbers but never an accurate time of day. She slept and woke as commanded, but her internal clock had never felt more confused, not even during her frequent trips to and from England to visit then-boyfriend Doug in Ireland.
    “I want to go home,” she moaned. “Why can’t I just go home? I don’t belong here. All those other women seem to be handling this, but I can’t.”
    The sheet was draped over his leg and he pushed it aside, rested his hands on his lap, leaned against the brick wall. “They’re not all handling it. Some are worse than you. You’re just not seeing it.”
    “That’s a small comfort.”
    He cocked his head, studied her breasts, and with a tentative, almost-shy gesture, he slowly trailed a finger along her arm. “Big women are beautiful,” he whispered.
    Fire burned in her brain. “Then why the hell do you want to make them thin?”
    “It’s my gift. My way of pleasing you. I know what you want.”
    “You’re still not getting it. The only way to make me happy is to let me leave this place.”
    He smiled. “I can’t do that. But you’ll only be here for a few months. Six, tops.”
    Six months? Her jaw muscles worked, mouth dropped open. “What?”
    “That’s not so long. You just need to adjust.”
    “I can’t! I want to go now.” The frustration grew, a frenzied mass trying to explode through the top of her head.
    He stood, stretched his arms overhead. “Stop yelling. Maintain a civil tongue, Zoey.”
    But now she was sobbing, her balled-up hands pounding the mattress.
    “Last chance to settle down. I do have standards to maintain.”
    And she heard him, heard every last word but couldn’t control herself, needed this release.
    “I’m giving you three seconds, Zoey. As much as I like you, I can’t make exceptions, can’t deviate from my standards.”
    Three seconds came and went, and so did James. She collapsed on her face and sobbed into the pillow.
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    Clanking metal woke her—how long had she been asleep?
    The cell that had been a stark gray was now without a source of light and had become as dark as a starless night sky. The light poured in from the end of the hall, and a stream of women flowed inside, entering their cells. Their voices sounded like sighs, the beating of tiny insect wings.
    Zoey crept across the floor and wrapped her fingers around the bars, peered into the now-blackness of the cell beside her own. “Kim? You there?”
    Conversations were minimal, their voices sounding tired. The sweet musky scent of sweat mingled with blood hung on the air, thick and pithy.
    “I’m here.” Kim was beside her, on the opposite side of the bars.
    “Anything going on?”
    “No surprises, if that’s what you mean. We were wondering what happened to you.”
    “After that bitch Robin attacked me, they brought me back here.”
    “You okay?”
    “I guess.” Zoey sighed, expelling the weight of the world from her lungs.
    “Get some sleep. I’m exhausted. They really wore me out.”
    “I know how you feel, Kim. Try to rest.”
    She sobbed, her shoulders hunched into the bars. “I can’t take any more, Zoey. I want to go home. I just want to die.”
    No words would come. Zoey empathized, held her through the bars as best as she could, until Kim sniffed and pulled away.
    Hands extended for guidance in the blackness, Zoey returned to her cot.
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    The following morning—she guessed it was morning, it could have been any time at all—Chambers paid her a visit, medical kit in hand. She applied a cream between Zoey’s splayed legs and then told her to lie on her stomach while she inspected her back.
    “Not too bad,” Chambers said. “Some bruises, light scratches. You’ve been lucky so far.”
    Lucky .
    Again in the cafeteria, ground zero, given her assignment by a guard scratching his